The greasy silver spoon
After a seething review from The Tab, we sent Tabitha von Varsitee (not their real name) to Shelley and Sarah’s
Ever since my third au pair joined our family after moving from Zone 6, tales of fantastical and exotic dishes filled our dining room. The cuisine she would describe conjured fascinating images of mediaeval feasts and the golden era of the Anglo-Saxons. It was all rather quaint, and imagine my humour at her pretence that common folk in Great Britain still gorge themselves on these foods to this very day. At the time, I thought it to be utterly bizarre for one to make up such stories, but my croque monsieur quickly regained my attention.
“I took a deep breath, put on a brave face, and knew I just had to try it”
In Cambridge, these tales of fantasy had been expelled to the depths of my memory after taking up veganism for a week before succumbing to the most delightful camembert, which led to a binge of baccy, wine and cheese – c’est la vie. It was only a matter of time, however, before escapades through Market Square led me to a place that reawakened the unbelievable tales told to me by that au pair; against the backdrop of global spirit and diversity, a metal box juxtaposed. As the post-box red of Shelley and Sarah’s emerged over the horizon, a tsunami of realisation shuddered through me like I’d reached the land of Oz: Toto, we’re not in Pret a Manger anymore.
Amongst the litter of garden furniture and wonky tables stood the kitchen. The mise en place was terribly exciting: towers of bread (often, I am told, not wholemeal), slices of pork meat thicker than mummy’s engagement ring, and eggs – presumably organic and free range – fried to a greasy crisp. I took my seat at one of the quaint tables, but after no waiter rushed to drop himself before me, I eventually took it upon myself to approach the head chef personally – this was an enormous culture shock, as I’m sure you can imagine. Upon greeting the fellow, and beginning to peruse the menu, my eyes fell upon something that I remembered hearing a topless patriot discuss at great length in a Spanish airport: a bacon sandwich (or “sarnie”, as the other clientele were labelling it). I took a deep breath, put on a brave face, and knew I just had to try it.
“It was at this point I realised how dearly I would miss wholegrain throughout this meal”
As soon as I requested my entrée I observed the greasy meat component of my meal hit the cast iron frying surface with an onomatopoeic hiss. I opted for a roll, rather than a baguette or sliced bread, just as the tradesmen before me had done, and even had a builder’s tea prepared personally by the head chef – when in Rome. The sandwich was hastily constructed and wrapped in a serviette which quickly became speckled with flecks of grease. Upon my request for a condiment to my meal I was directed to an amalgamation of half used plastic containers. Forced to make a fool of oneself and apply the condiment without assistance, I opted for HP Sauce. I felt that, since daddy worked there (CEO of Kraft Heinz no less), and it’s good enough for Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth II, it’s good enough for me – but someone else really ought to be doing such menial tasks. I thanked them with my best effort of a smile given the circumstances.
I took my place at an empty table with the least remnants from previous patrons on it, and placed the tray down – which matched its surroundings with its stark red colour. Taking several moments to compose myself, I finally conjured enough courage to take a step into uncharted territory. I sunk my teeth into the mountain of beige, pulled back, and the first bite had begun.
To describe the flavours as complex would not be truthful, but the harmony between heavy carbs and greasy protein was difficult to dismiss. Nevertheless, I could not allow my pretentious pretences to falter in such a crowd. The bread was the first impact, and thus the first thing my mouth processed. It was at this point I realised how dearly I would miss wholegrain throughout this meal; the artificial sweetness of the white roll was overwhelming. Then the butter and bacon hit all at once. Greasy, salty, meaty. Despite the slipperiness of the oils, the bacon and bread combined to form a quite intense chew, which I quickly understood would mean each mouthful would not be a swift one. As the first went down I took another, and this time the HP sauce was centre-stage, and this was, I have to say, a real improvement. Complexity rushed in as the saltiness of the bacon mixed with the light tang of the sauce. The tea was another story, and a rather poor pairing with the dish as it was far too strong to drink in tandem. Regardless, I devoured the lot, but managed to retain my snooty composure of dismissal.
Overall, it was fine. Of course the food could not compete with the variety and quality of the rest of the market. When you have options like two types of paella or food entirely focused on halloumi, how could it? This was primarily the sustenance of working class Brits after all, and this couldn’t possibly align with my ideology of acceptable food nor diversity. However, how could one not enjoy it? A guilty pleasure, if you will. While I disagree with its existence on an ideological level, I’ve been forced to admit it was most pleasurable. Overall, I must give it 1 star.
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